Pain of the Forsaken
by Elenothar
Summary: After Satine's death, Cristian is devastated. There is no place for him in a world without her.


**Disclaimer: **Don't own anything...a pity.

**Characters: **Christian, a wee bit of Toulouse

**Summary: **After Satine's death, Christian is devastated. There's no place for him in a world without her.

**Notes: **This is my first Moulin Rouge fanfiction _ever_ so please be kind.

**Warning: **This is NOT a happy piece of work. Character death.

Please, be so kind to review and tell me what you think!

Pain of the Forsaken

A man lay slumped at a shadowed desk, his head burrowed in his hands. A broken sob escaped his dry lips. His eyes, half hidden by long lashes, were empty. Only pain resided in once beautiful blue-green orbs. No sparkle, not even the tiniest twinkle of life.

**

Vacuum. Vacuum was the closest description for his current state. A vacuum of feelings, of actions, of life. Only grief existed in that vacuum. A soul-shredding grief, never far from his thoughts, which had transformed him into a broken shadow of the man he'd once been.

Since Satine, the love of his life, was gone, gone _forever_ – something in him still rebelled against actually thinking the word 'dead' in connection with her – life, to him, was senseless. Why should he live without her? What was there to live for? But every time depression began to weight him down past even his last defenses, remnants from happier times, her words, falling from red lips like droplets of invisible blood, nearly her last to him, _'You have to move on. You have so much to give...'_, rose in his mind, haunting his every thought. He couldn't just take his own life, not when she had asked him not to with her last breath.

Still he might have deceased simply from lack of food and water, if not for Toulouse. His ever-faithful friend visited his gloomy hideout regularly, despite the pain Christian saw in his eyes every time he saw him in this sorry state, bringing something to eat and drink and trying to cheer him up in every way possible. Though Christian never reacted to his attempts, a small part of him, which had not completely died yet, whispering of past joys, _was_ grateful for everything Toulouse did for him, and maybe the small man noticed that, read it in his face, for he never gave up, when someone less determined would have, surely.

Toulouse brought news from the Moulin Rouge every time he visited. The once great establishment was fading, slowly diminishing back to ordinary now that its star was gone and the duke had drawn back his financial backing. But Christian found he didn't care as much as he once would have. He didn't owe the Moulin Rouge anything. Nor did he owe Zidler. He _certainly _didn't owe the duke. They had all only tried to keep him away from Satine. Something he couldn't forgive, and neither did he want to.

Sometimes, in the dark hours of night, when not even light from the outside world was there to shed some light on his soul, he bitterly appreciated the irony – everyone had told him the jealousy would drive him mad, but now it turned out that actually the loss would do so.

So between Toulouse and his memories of Satine, he continued on, if only a shadow of his former self.

**

Then, one not so special day in late spring, compelled by the promise he'd made, knowing he would never find peace otherwise, he sat down in front of his typewriter and began writing again, for he first time since 'Spectacular! Spectacular!'. He put their story into words, their story of love and joy and pain and death.

The dream of a young, naive man traveling to Paris to make his living as a writer, planning to spin tales of Truth, Beauty, Freedom, and Love seemed distant, foolish. A child's dream.

Now he wrote to unburden his soul, the passion was gone. But more importantly, he wrote so that no one would ever forget Satine, the Sparkling Diamond. _His_ Satine.

The task gave him back a purpose, if only for a time, and he threw himself into finishing the project with his whole being. What else was there?

More often than not he went to sleep at his typewriter, if he got any sleep at all, for his dreams continued to be haunted by _her_, always by her. He could not forget her, even in slumber – and he couldn't always decide whether that was a blessing or a curse.

Christian knew Toulouse hoped he would heal after writing their story, that he would learn to deal with his loss, and he didn't have the heart to discourage him, but in truth, in his mind, there was no 'after' for him. The vacuum, the loss of will, had not disappeared, it had only been filled with purpose for the duration of his work. Afterward there would be nothing left.

**

Hours turned into days, days into weeks, weeks into month, as life outside his room went on as normal not heeding the desolation of one, and the day he finished their story came.

Outside night had fallen, and no light illuminated his cluttered and untidy room, safe the pale moonlight, casting faint shadows over him, as his nimble fingers typed the last fateful words.

The end.

For a long moment he stared at the letters, grief, barely held at bay, sending a lone tear down his cheek, leaving a silver trail, glistening in the moonlight.

The end.

Such innocent words, to be found at the end of every book or story, yet so heartbreaking, describing Satine's death, the end of their relationship, and now _his_ end as well. For with this last stamp of ink on white paper, he knew with every fiber of his being that he'd reached the end of journey. Peace beckoned, at last. Rest from a world he didn't feel he belonged to anymore.

Determination flooding him, his face set, Christian straightened.

There was only one thing left to be done.

But first, he needed to call Toulouse.

**

At first light in the morning Christian left his refuge for the first time in months. He'd shaved of his scraggly beard and donned the Argentinian's suit, who'd insisted he keep it, claiming 'he looked much better in it than he ever could', for once not repelling the memories assaulting him – memories of a time of joy and happiness, when he'd first set eyes on Satine.

Careful not to attract undue attention, clutching the object he'd asked Toulouse to fetch for him, who'd complied though surprised, to his chest, he crossed the street to the Moulin Rouge, deserted for the day after a night of pleasures, making his way towards the Elephant Satine had called home for so many years.

There, beneath the majestic blue head, his love had been buried. Only too vividly did he remember the burial...

_A day after the catastrophic ending of the show they'd spent more than half a year practicing for, Christian was still in a state of shock. His mind simply couldn't handle the fact that Satine had _died_. That the only woman he would ever love had died in his arms, just after they'd found back to each other.  
The last day was a blur of grief, he didn't really process anything of which had been going on or what had happened to him...though he was pretty sure Toulouse had been there, just as he now stood beside him in the first row as Satine's casket was slowly carried to the hole Chocolat had dug into the earth beneath the Elephant of the Moulin Rouge. _

_Tears were running down his cheeks again, even when he'd thought they had run dry. There were no words to describe the infinite feeling of loss and grief he felt. Not even the greatest poet of all time could have adequately put his emotions into words._

_Then Harold Zidler stepped forward to make a farewell speech, but Christian didn't listen to any of his words. The only thing that stayed in his mind was the softly sung tribute of a father to a daughter in all but blood, once again making it painfully clear to him that he wasn't the only one who'd loved Satine – but he couldn't bring himself to care. Much._

_He stood rigid, his pain apparent to everyone only glancing at him, during the rest of the ceremony, and thankfully everyone had the sense not to approach him. He wouldn't have been able to stand a conversation, or pity, now._

_All sense of time left him, but eventually he became aware that he and Toulouse were the last ones remaining, as Toulouse regarded him with a concerned look in his caring eyes, and, after an awkward pat on his shoulder, left as well, leaving him alone – with the mortal remains of Satine._

_And finally, with no one watching, he let his grief take over, let it all pour out in an emotional storm, crying to the heavens. _

After that day, he'd never returned there, too great was the pain.

Christian knelt down on the patch of grass in front of the white marker, bowing his head, tears once again streaming down his cheeks, the seemingly ever-lasting well of grief inside him overflowing again.

But through his tears, he raised his head to the sky, and his voice, so long unused, carried their song to the heaven, untainted.

When the silvery pure tones of the last verse had faded away, Christian sank to the ground, repeating in a pained, yet content whisper, "Until my dying day..."

**

And that was how Toulouse found him, hours later, collapsed on top of Satine's grave, eyes closed in death, his face strangely peaceful, the lines of pain and grief erased at last.

But Toulouse's eyes were drawn somewhere else. In his right hand Christian held a single rose, so perfectly white like it had come directly from heaven.

His last tribute to the woman he'd loved, loved, and would love forever on.

For some things, can't die. Some things, aren't _meant_ to die. Ever.


End file.
